


it's a ruse, all these creatures are a lie

by quarterweeb



Category: Pippin - Schwartz/Hirson
Genre: Gen, Why you ask?, because that's what my production did and I miss them, don't be fooled by the character tags, there are actually two leading players
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-14
Updated: 2019-11-14
Packaged: 2021-01-30 12:15:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,941
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21428062
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/quarterweeb/pseuds/quarterweeb
Summary: There is no death of Pippin in the end, only the death of PIPPIN; when the lights go out, the show, theworld, dies.-The world of Pippin is unkind, ruthless and unfeeling, and it does not end with the stage.
Relationships: Pippin/Catherine, Pippin/Leading Player, it's not really addressed tho so does it even count, like if you squint
Comments: 2
Kudos: 14





	it's a ruse, all these creatures are a lie

**Author's Note:**

> This is a story LITERAL YEARS in the making. Every time I'm in a show, I try to write something about it. I was in Pippin Spring 2017, okay? It's been a while.
> 
> Honestly, I was just so stumped for so long on what exactly I wanted the mood and the "rules" of this fic to be, but then I decided, screw it! I write what I want and no one can stop me, and if it doesn't make sense then whatever!
> 
> (if it doesn't make sense, though, I really am sorry)
> 
> One thing I will say: the Player and the Leader are "he" and "she", respectively, but they speak of themselves as "we" when talking to Pippin.
> 
> Title is from the Glass Animals song Walla Walla!

There had never been two.

Not before now, at least. But the Troupe was losing strength. It had been so long since Pippin had finished The Finale, and the last Leading Player had succumbed to his own desire for a perfect act eons ago. A new Leading Player needed to be chosen, someone who could bring the Troupe the life they needed to continue their show. They searched for one, but instead they were met with two.

They were simple people, with their own dreams and hopes and aspirations, their own friends and enemies and lovers. But there was a spark of something in both of them that was begging to be let free. The Troupe took them. Molded them, into something...extraordinary.

A man and a woman, charm and strength, the Player and the Leader. They completed one another: not as soulmates, but as two inseparable halves of a whole. She, the bright flame of a roaring fire, crackling with warmth and licking painfully at your skin; he, the shadow that was cast, mysterious, seemingly innocuous but more sinister than the fire that sustained it. She, the tide of the sea, pulling and shaking violently, relentlessly; he, the cool, salty tinge on your skin that remained despite all efforts to rid yourself of it.

A beautiful, powerful, irresistible, deadly pair.

All they needed was Pippin.

This Pippin was different. Some were confident, headstrong; others were timid, unsure. This one's strength was in his weaknesses. His naive concepts of love, his empathy, his aloofness: it all added to his vibrancy. His beautiful, delicious energy. His Finale would be spectacular.

But his Finale had yet to come. The script always drove Pippin back to Catherine and Theo, and the Troupe was suffering because of it. Many carried heavy bags under their eyes, the pallor in their sunken cheeks becoming more noticeable by the day.

Someone needed to be sacrificed, and soon.

The Troupe, with Pippin in tow, have leaped and spun their way into the arms of the Finale, into the moment of truth. The Leader steps in front of Theo and his mother, blocking them off. The boy cowers, but Catherine stays rigid. The steel in the women's eyes clashes against one another, vying for dominance, daring the other to back down first. The Player stepped towards Pippin in his slinking, elegant way, and lightly turned Pippin's face towards him with his fingertips.

"You've felt it, haven't you, Pippin? The weakness, the hunger for something more. This is it. The culmination of everything you've done so far. Every hope, dream, aspiration, friend, enemy, lover." The Player took Pippin's face fully into his hand. "This is what you've been waiting for. What _ we've _ been waiting for. The Grand Finale."

Pippin risks a glance at where the Leader stands, her hard form in stark contrast to Catherine's soft curves.

"But what about...?" Pippin trails off, and the Player feels him waver, pushes his face towards the gorgeous flames leaping in that box.

"You know what's waiting with them. Normal. Everyday life. That's beneath you, Pippin." The Player tries to keep his voice from becoming too harsh. "Nobody knows what's on the other side of the Finale. You could be the first."

The fire in Pippin's eyes dies, and like a coward, like a compromiser, he runs back to the girl and her child.

Time for the apologies.

* * *

As soon as they step off-stage, the sound of applause following their tramping footsteps, the glitter on their faces melts into the air. Costumes disappear, and everyone is left wearing all black. The Player wonders if it’s because they were supposed to be mourning. There is no death of Pippin in the end, only the death of PIPPIN; when the lights go out, the show, the _ world_, dies. 

The Player’s eyes sweep the room. No sign of the Leader, or of the show’s namesake. He didn’t linger with the tired members of the Troupe, stepping through the curtain and picturing Pippin. That's really all there was to traveling through the purgatorial theater. He had mastered the skill much faster than the Leader; even now she struggled to navigate the invisible web.

The theater spits him out into the showcase room. Here, hundreds of posters are pasted onto the black brick wall, some curling at the edges, some glossy and smooth, but all wearing the word PIPPIN on their paper bodies. The man in question sits in the middle of the room, hugging his knees to his chest, looking up at the posters grimly.

The Player lightly sets a hand on his shoulder. Pippin’s breath catches, and the Player sits beside him, pressing their shoulders together.

“I didn’t hear you come in,” he says.

“We walk quietly,” the Player chuckles. “What are you doing in the showcase room?”

“Is that what you call it?”

The Player nods, looking at the pictures that surround them. “This is where the Pippins and Leading Players of old are immortalized. The ones that finish, the ones that...compromise.” The Player feels Pippin cringe at the word next to him. “All of their faces are on these walls, somewhere. It’s the only history the Troupe has.”

“I couldn’t find you on any of the posters,” Pippin says, after a moment.

“We’re new to this, too, baby. You’re the only Pippin we’ve ever known. But once you finish the finale, or we do,” the Player gestures vaguely to the curtain, to one of the endless rooms where the Leader was probably pacing impatiently, “we’ll all be a part of history, too.”

“Wait, _ you _ can finish the Finale? You could...” Pippin drags a finger across his throat, and the Player follows the movement hungrily.

“We _ will_, when we go completely insane.” The Player grins widely. “Players don’t get to escape, Pippin. Players die or endure: that’s how it’s always been. Only you could leave.”

“How do I do that?”

“Afraid we couldn’t help you there even if we wanted to, baby. We got no idea. Some make it out, and some don’t wanna make it out.”

Pippin lays his head on the Player’s shoulder. “So I’m just...stuck here?” he asks, his voice flat.

“Who can say for sure? The only thing certain in this hellhole is the Finale, honey. That’s all we know.”

The Player snakes his arm around Pippin, pulling him closer, and they wallow in their blindness as history looks on them with lively, dead eyes. 

* * *

The performances blur into each other, and why shouldn’t they? Each is a stainless masterpiece, color and joy performed mechanically. The Leader shows Pippin the glory of battle, and the Player shows him the simple joys of more carnal desires; again, and again, and again they dance, like monkeys they _dance_, and it is never enough.

The Troupe grows weary. Their steps are always perfect, bouncy and light, but their spines sag behind their feet. Their cheerful, loud voices are growing hoarse.

They grow closer and closer to a pit: no fire, just an endless, bottomless, dark.

* * *

The Leader is pacing, pacing, pacing, a rhythmic clicking on the hard concrete as she thinks of what the hell she’s going to do about the Troupe. Their faces are growing pallid and thin, and Pippin refuses to die. She sneers. What a coward he is. But she supposes he can’t help the way he’s written.

The Leader is pacing, pacing, pacing, and thinks of a coward and he appears. Pippin collides with her head-on, and as soon as he hits the ground and looks up he’s shriveling in her presence.

“Uh, sorry, I didn’t mean—”

“Did you want something?” the Leader asks bluntly.

Pippin shrinks into the floor. Already she is taller than him, but like this she is a pillar of raw strength. “I-I-I wanted to ask—”

“Spit it out.”

He nods, and swallows. “W-what’s...what’s wrong with the rest of the actors?”

She turns from him, hears him scramble to his feet as soon as her back is turned. “They’re dying.”

“What?”

“The Troupe isn’t like us. They don’t live off meat and bread, they live off the show.”

"How...?" He's asking the wrong question, the Leader thinks, and she's almost impressed when he thinks better of it, too. “Then why are they—”

“People don’t believe in magic like they used to, not since the turn of the century. The Troupe _ needs _ that, wilts like a plant in the dark without it.” Her eyes are sharp when she turns them on him again. “They need the fire, Pippin, or they will _ die_. And then where would we be? Where would _ you _ be?”

Pippin squares his shoulders. “I’d be gone. I’d be _ free_.”

“Oh, would you, now?” The Leader cocks her head. “Is freedom really free when you have blood on your hands? Because you _will_, if you don't die for them. All our blood will be dripping between your fingers, little boy. Are you at peace with that?”

_ That _ breaks his bravado. She smiles coldly. “We can’t escape from here, and neither can you.” Words fly to her tongue, unbidden, pouring from her mouth. “The only thing certain in this hellhole is the Finale, honey.”

Pippin’s face drains of color.

His stumbling getaway is not even worth a second glance. The Leader draws her attention back to the floor, and continues her pacing and her pacing and her thinking and her pacing. 

* * *

The same scene. The Leader, Catherine, Theo, the firebox. It’s almost lost its charm. Almost. But there’s a palpable tension in the air tonight.

This is it. The show that will change everything. Even the audience can feel it; they’ve been on the edge of their seats, nearly the edge of the stage. Their anticipation is palpable, and the Troupe is giving back everything they’re getting in full force.

The same scene, but Pippin’s feet are closer to the firebox than they’ve ever been, and it might just be the opening that the Player needs. 

“Look at them all,” the Player whispers, and turns Pippin’s eyes away from where the Leader snarls at woman and child, the picture of domestic dull stupid boring compromise. “They’re so bright, aren’t they? They’re happy on the stage. But you know and we know that they won’t stay that way for long. They’ve been stuck in the cold for so long, Pippin. They need your help. _ We _ need your help. You’re the only one who can keep us on our feet, honey!”

This time, the fire catches in Pippin's eyes. It smolders, just needs a little breath to keep it lit—

"You could save them. Save _ us_. Pippin, the hero; Pippin, the savior! Isn't that what you've wanted all along?" The Player grabs his shoulders, nearly manic in his glee. “Baby, you are _ it_.”

And it _ burns_.

The determination with which Pippin climbs the stairs is awe-inspiring. Behind him, Theo wails and Catherine cries his name in vain. When the lights shut off, they will rejoice with the rest of the Troupe, but for now they play their parts and shed their tears.

The rest of the players open the door to the firebox, whooping and chanting and singing, and Pippin has the audacity to smile at the Player before he falls backwards into the flames.

His screams are a sweeter music than any other, that night.

* * *

They've succeeded. Pippin has completed the Finale, the Troupe is healthy again, as energetic as if nothing had ever been wrong. Everything is perfect, and so, so empty.

"Onto the next Pippin," the Leader says, looking over the bright eyes of their Troupe.

"Onto the next Pippin," The Player hums.

**Author's Note:**

> Comments and kudos are appreciated and (as always) I hope you enjoyed the story! Honestly, I'm just happy to have this boi out of my goddamn house. To be honest, it's a little surreal to have finished it, but it just goes to show that sometimes the writing process is a little slow, and that's alright!


End file.
